Page 95 of Thorns of Desire
I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.
“Window,” I whispered, my voice trembling in the silence. “Open the curtains.”
He shot off the bed, rushing to the French window. It wasn’t until the curtains slid open and a splash of silvery-white moonlight filtered through that I was able to inhale a deep breath. Then he cracked open the windows and the night sounds rushed in—the waves crashing against the shore, crickets chirping.
Manuel returned to my side, taking my hands between his and watching me with a worried frown.
“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice trembling and my fingers ice cold.
“What was the dream about?” he asked softly.
I couldn’t find the words to describe it because it wasn’t a dream. They were memories, terrorizing me. Of that night I was shoved in a box. I wanted to forget, yet I knew it would stay with me forever.
I glanced at the clock and saw the time. 3:15 a.m.
I threw myself into his arms.
“I don’t remember,” I lied, pressing my face against his naked flesh. He wrapped his arms around me in a protective embrace. “Just stay with me.”
We slid beneath the covers and I focused on his chest rising and falling. My skin itched as the images clawed at me and my scar burned, but I ignored it all.
I felt safe in Manuel’s arms, my husband.
I kept my cheek pressed against his chest for hours, my eyes zeroed in on the stars that twinkled until the first flickers of dawn splashed against the sky.
Knowing that sleep wouldn’t find me again, I shifted slightly so I wouldn’t disturb him. I slid out of the bed, pulled on yoga pants and a loose shirt, grabbed my phone, and tiptoed out of the bedroom and through the silent house.
I hadn’t explored each corner of this place, and I didn’t have anything else to do. I fumbled my way through the differentwings, amazed at the beauty of it. Most of the architecture had been modernized, but the old charm of the castle was still preserved. There were stone walls, arched ceilings, and marble floors in almost every room—the kitchen, all three of the living rooms, the dining room, the office, and the library.Oh, the library. It was everything I could’ve ever wished for.
The doors that led inside were carved from oak with stained-glass scenes depicting the goddess of wisdom, Minerva.
I placed my hand on the door and pushed it open, revealing a brand-new world.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, gaping at the room that had somehow remained stuck in the fifteenth century. The stone walls were hung with rich tapestries, and the chandeliers cast amber light throughout.
There was a desk in the center of the space, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A fire crackling in the fireplace and the moon filtering through half-round windows.
I looked up and gasped at the domed ceiling. It was painted with scenes from Dante’sInferno.
Making my way through the room, I read the titles stocking the shelves.Confessionsby Augustine.Meditationsby Marcus Aurelius.The Odesby Horace.The Divine Comedyby Dante Alighieri.
And… my eyes widened.
“What the hell?” I murmured under my breath. I rubbed my eyes, wondering whether I was seeing things. “What are my books doing here?”
My voice traveled through the empty room as I stepped closer to the book-filled shelves. One in particular stood out from the rest, its pages marked with green tabs. I reached for it, flipping through the familiar words and pages… until I heard footsteps behind me.
I whirled around to see my husband in the doorway in nothing but pajama pants, his torso bare and his muscles flexing. My fingers itched, fighting the desire to drag my nails down his smooth skin.
He’d paused at the threshold and was watching me.
“You wear glasses?” I asked in surprise.
He pulled off his wire-framed glasses, making his way over to the desk in the middle of the room and tossing them on it.
“Only when I read,” he stated, and it was only then that I noticed he held a book. I gaped. It was one of mine.
“What… what is that?”
